To Grieve For The Heavens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Fit for a voyage on the tip of my tongue:
My dryer doesn’t work anymore- the heavens have lost
Her name:
And she goes to bed with her children draped around her,
Forgetting the tastes of the nuptials of my vines,
The creamy breakfasts and the horses at hot trots
Who seem to pull the weight of the next
Day through the mountains,
Pushing whatever savage purple nimbus remains,
And leaving room for a fair so great and so round
That it leaves nothing left to speak for itself:
And the chimneys of the devil’s stone arise
Like bottlenecks over the television heads of latchkeyed
Children who sit there postulating fearlessly in their
Unspoken for yet living rooms,
And never even hope to think to grieve for the heavens
That they have been missing.